Only the Scars We See
by smithandbarrowman
Summary: ON HIATUS. Six years after the war, Draco Malfoy is a shadow of his former self. Struggling with the repercussions of his actions, he leaves the wizarding world behind, living anonymously in the Muggle world he once despised. But a chance meeting with the person who haunts his dreams just might be the chance he needs.
1. Chapter 1

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* * *

There was a boy. A blond boy.  
A blond, selfish, nasty boy.  
A blond, selfish, nasty boy who had  
been spoiled and was rude.

There was a boy. A boy who had been a bigot.  
A boy who had been a bigot and  
believed everyone was beneath him.

There was a boy. A boy who had believed in status.  
A boy who believed in status and that his status outshone all others.

There was a boy. A boy who had been chosen.  
A boy who had been chosen to do the unthinkable.

There was a boy. He was just a boy.  
He was just a boy, who had no choice.


	2. Chapter 2

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* * *

****** DRACO ******

* * *

War changes you. That's what they all say. It takes the strongest of warriors and tears them in two. It takes the most unlikely of soldiers and turns them into heroes. It makes you vulnerable, threatens your existence, and exposes you to atrocities that you should never see. Atrocities which — no matter how hard you try to put them behind you — never leave.

You are led to believe war is an adventure — a brave and courageous fight for the betterment of all — but it's far from it. War is not fun, war is not exciting, war benefits no one, and those people who romanticise it clearly have never fought in one. There is nothing romantic or elegant about it. To go to war is to stare death in the face. And every day, death stares back at you, unblinking, right in the eye. And because of that, you are forced to bury all your feelings, forced to look past the horrors, forced to make decisions that no person should ever have to make.

You're little more than a number, a pawn in a much bigger game of which you know almost nothing about. You are sent by men — who think they know better — to kill others, and they are ordered to kill you. And you do it, without question, because the lives of those you love are threatened with unspeakable horrors upon your refusal.

But when all is said and done when the celebrations of victory are over, amongst all the romanticism, the praise and the honours, a different horror arises. The dark side of war. The part they leave out. The part they would rather have remain in the dark. The part they don't tell you is that war holds those who survived to ransom — strong, weak, brave, cowardly — it doesn't discriminate and the horrors never leave. They dull somewhat, but at the most unlikely of times, they pull you back down and remind you all over again of just how fragile human life is, how fragile your own life is. They remind you of the pain and the suffering and the fear.

And worst of all, they remind you of the deaths. The cold-blooded deaths. The senseless deaths. The agonising, brutal deaths. The intentional deaths.

And it was those deaths — the bloody, screaming, nightmarish deaths — that took me from who I was then and made me who I was now. And the person I was now, was not the person I thought I would ever become.

The only thing anyone was right about was that war _does_ change you. My life changed. Everyone's did.

But, despite the events that changed the lives of all those involved, the world continued to turn, time ticked away at its usual pace, and everything was as it should be. The sun rose and fell as it always did. Birds chirped, dogs barked, the wind blew. People scurried through the crowded streets on their way to someplace important, and the relatively safe world that they lived in continued on its merry way.

But try as I might, I could no longer face the world I had once lived in, and the world in which I now existed held little interest for me either. Everything around me was irrelevant — I cared for none of it. Time, for me, had stopped, and my life had become equally irrelevant.

I would wake up. I would look around. I would fill my days with endless nothingness. And those days became a blur of sameness, one day would simply bleed into the next in an endless cycle of light and dark.

I hated the person I had become, but mostly I had come to hate the person I was back then. It was a constant internal battle to keep the thoughts of who I'd been out of my head. The loathsome, spoiled brat. The bigoted coward. The snotty rich kid who looked down his nose at everyone, including his friends. I had lived my life without a care, with money to burn, and with a name which I thought commanded respect.

But in the end, it was all for nothing.

My father had rotted away in his jail cell, fighting tooth and nail against his sentence. But his efforts were all for naught. The sentence stood; it was two years since The Kiss had been ordered, so he now spent his days pissing in his pants and drowning in his own drool.

My mother had been exiled, with little chance to return. She was under house arrest on a small island off the coast of Norway with none of the luxuries she had spent her life surrounded by. And she would hate it. She would hate the cold, the isolation, the solitude, the minimalistic lifestyle — all of it. But I guess that was the point, to make her life so miserable that she wished she'd gotten the same sentence as my father.

And I knew that I shouldn't have hated my own existence — or so I had been repeatedly told. But it was impossible not to. I had degenerated into a shadow of who I once was, and saw no reason whatsoever to return to the person I once had been. My name no longer mattered. My family no longer existed. My friends had all been pushed from my life. I was alone, and that was how I wanted it to stay.

It hadn't been solely their decision, not really; I hadn't given my friends much choice. I had convinced myself I didn't need any of them and pushed them all away. They had wanted me to talk, to share, to tell them all what was going on in my head, but sharing feelings and appreciating the simple things each day — the little things that made the world turn — was complete bullshit.

The simple things. What a joke.

I hadn't seen a sunrise in ages — mornings were not a part of my daily schedule — and sunsets basically indicated that it was time to hit the pub. The streets were loud and far too crowded, the sky was dull, and I didn't give a rat's arse about stopping to smell the roses.

Roses had thorns that simply caused more pain.

Pain, hurt, and anger. And the disgust at what I had done, how I had acted, never went away. Scotch numbed it somewhat, but the memories, the terror, the never-ending screams, all haunted me each and every day and made my life hell.

And now, that scotch was numbing the pain some more.

"That barstool will have your name on it soon." Eddie the bartender was saying. "You spend more time here than you do at home, I think."

"You don't want my money?" I shrugged a shoulder, "I'm more than happy take it elsewhere."

He laughed, "Oh, I like your money just fine. I'm just watching out for you."

"Thanks, Dad." I rolled my eyes.

"And maybe you should go outside, maybe spend some time in the sun." He grinned, placing another drink in front of me, "You look like a bloody vampire. All you need is a cloak and some fangs."

"Nothing wrong with vampires," I grinned back at him, "Sleeping during the day is the best way to avoid people."

He laughed at me and then shook his head, moving back down the bar. It was the same conversation we had almost every time I came in here. He'd tell me to go outside, I'd tell him to serve me more scotch.

I watched him as he chatted with the few others along the bar, observed the ease with which he laughed with them, and the twist of hatred I always felt when I saw someone enjoying their life tugged at my insides and I had to tamp it down. He was simply a guy, working to pay his way, not disgusted at his existence, and I shouldn't hate him for it.

"Malfoy?"

I started, my spine stiffening, my body tensing. The voice that spoke my name was one I knew. One I was very familiar with. But it was the one I had hoped to avoid for the rest of my life. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that maybe she would walk away if I simply ignored her.

"Draco?"

I felt a hand on my shoulder and I winced. I didn't want to be touched — hated to be touched — and I certainly didn't want to be touched by her.

I opened my eyes, turning my head slightly to look at her. Her face was surprised, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. But it was an expression I was all too familiar with. It was the exact same look that I saw on the face of anyone who happened to recognise me.

"Granger," I mumbled and turned back to my drink, downing it in one swallow. I nodded to the bartender and he filled my glass again, liquid courage was what I would need for this encounter.

"May I?" She gestured the seat beside me. I shrugged, indicating I didn't care where she sat, and instinctively shrank deeper into myself when she actually sat down. I didn't look at her, hunching my shoulders and keeping my eyes lowered to the drink in front of me. I didn't want to see her. Didn't want to see any of them.

She sat quietly — which was not what I expected. The Granger I knew would have barely taken a breath and peppered me with a million questions, and I would have ignored each and every one of them. But her silence was even more unnerving and the only thing she said to break that silence was _gin_ when Eddie noticed her sitting with me and asked what she was drinking.

"You know him?" Eddie asked.

"I used to," she told him and thanked him politely when he placed the glass in front of her. "We went to school together."

Eddie looked between us both and snorted a laugh, "You sure you've got the right person, love? I'd say looking at you both, you went to _very_ different schools."

"He was actually one of the smartest students in our class." The defensive note in her voice surprised me and I chanced a peek out of the corner of my eye. Her shoulders were set, and she was looking at Eddie with an expression that told him to not be so judgemental. "We took different paths, that's all."

Eddie held his hands up. "No foul meant, love."

She gave him a curt nod, which should have made me smile, but all it did was infuriate me. I didn't need her fucking defending me.

"What do you want, Granger?" I snapped, not looking at her. "Why are you here?"

"I'm meeting some friends," she said, not seeming to be bothered by my coldness. "I'm early, that's all."

I didn't respond, wanting instantly to be as far away from her as possible. Meeting friends? Wouldn't that be brilliant? They could all see me and mock what I had become. They would love it. All the years I had spent taunting and mocking them would all come back on me.

"Are you alright?" She asked quietly, the genuine concern in her voice was hard to miss. It shocked me. Why would she even care?

"Why do you care?" I asked, my thoughts escaping me. I turned to glare at her, but she wasn't looking at me with sympathy, or pity, or even disgust. She had a small smile on her face, a smile which made no sense. She should hate me, should have been laughing at me, should have been shouting to the world how Draco Malfoy had turned out. But she wasn't. She was sitting here, smiling, asking me if I was alright.

"No one has seen you in…" She trailed off, frowning, as if trying to remember the last time she saw me. "We were all worried."

I snorted. "Worried? Yeah, right. You were all worried about me. Arsehole extraordinaire, Draco Malfoy. I find that very hard to believe."

"Draco," she put her hand on my wrist, "Of course we've been worried. You disappeared—"

I wrenched my hand away, stopping her. "Don't, Granger." I finished my drink and stood, "Don't do the sympathy thing, don't pity me, don't pretend I'm someone you even like. I'm sure your Gryffindor cronies will be here soon. You can tell them all how you saw me, and the state I'm in. I bet you'll all have get a good laugh."

I dug into my pocket, not missing the widening of her eyes when she saw the Muggle money. I threw a handful of notes on the bar and walked away from her, ignoring her calling my name, and stepped out of the pub. I covered my head with my hoodie, hunching my shoulders and hiding my face from the passing crowd, barely looking up as I trudged through the streets, ignoring everything but the sound of the ice and snow crunching beneath my feet. The icy wind whipped around me, stinging across my bare skin and I shoved my hands in my pockets. The winter had been particularly harsh, but I hadn't bothered with anything more than the hoodie I was wearing. I usually would have had a gut full of whisky before heading home, the warmth of it numbing me and any effects the cold may have had. But Granger's untimely arrival put an end to that.

I slammed the door to my flat, locking it and curled my hand into a fist; my need to punch something was all encompassing. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, calming my thoughts. It wouldn't help, punching something. Violence wasn't what I needed; experience had taught me that cut up hands just caused more pain.

I had rented the flat, not caring about the size of it or where it was. I just wanted to be away from everyone and everything, and that's what the tiny space allowed me. I had managed to remain hidden, completely out of sight, not wanting to see or hear or think about the world I had grown up in, the world that had suddenly become the thing I loathed most.

And The Manor it most definitely wasn't — sparse was a generous description. A single bed was shoved in the corner, an old couch split the room, and a small table was all the furniture that the room held. A short counter attached to the wall held a hot plate and a small fridge made up what I kindly called the kitchen. The flimsy curtain which hung in the second doorway hid the dank and dingy bathroom, a room which was so tiny I was barely able to turn around in it.

The entire space was smaller than what had been my dressing room at The Manor. And while there was once a time I would have turned my nose up at anyone who would have lived in such meagre surroundings, the small space was now more than I needed.

The only concession I made when I rid myself of The Manor was the library. I had it shipped and stored in Gringotts, and every few weeks I would have a goblin exchange books from my vault. It was my only contact with the world I once lived in, and in truth, it was more contact than I truly wanted.

And before tonight, it had been more than a year since I'd had any contact with anyone from the world that I used to know.

My chest constricted and I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, the burn in my throat. I swallowed hard. I hated this. Hated that I couldn't control my emotions anymore.

_Granger_. Why did it have to be her?

She was the one person I tried never to think about. She was the one who caused me the most pain. Hers were the screams which haunted me the most. They were the ones that still woke me in the night, crying my own denials, telling myself that such things couldn't possibly have happened. And those screams were the reason I drank to numb the pain, proving yet again that I was nothing more than a pathetic coward.

And that cowardice was why I had isolated myself from everyone and everything. Solitude was the only thing I could depend on. Solitude was how I coped. Solitude ensured I was reliant on only myself, and that I owed no one a thing.

Solitude was the one thing that made my life easier. Without the constant scrutiny, without the whispers, without the pointing, I managed to exist. And the armour that I built around myself ensured that no one got close. Keeping everyone away ensured that no one was disappointed when I inevitably let them down. Because that's what I did, it was what I was known for — looking out for number one, and not caring who I stepped on to achieve my goals.

But, of course, none of that mattered to me anymore. The only way I could now live was to blend in, keep my head down, and stay quiet — become a shadow. I wanted as little baggage from my old life as possible. I had the bare essentials and nothing more, no matter how dismal my surroundings now were.

I turned to the small window that looked out over the city, millions of lights almost turning the night back into day. There was a time when I would have looked at this city — and the people who resided in it — with contempt, but now they were my salvation. I was a nobody in this world, just another nameless face, and I was happy with that. My name out there meant a doorway to my past could be reopened, a doorway that I had long ago closed. Opening it once more meant the questions would start again, the accusations, the looks of disgust, and everything I had distanced myself from would resurface and turn my life to hell.

I had spent my entire life trying to prove myself — to my father, to my friends, to the people I thought mattered — but now I couldn't even look at my own face in the mirror; all that was reflected back at me was cowardice, and bigotry, and fear. I saw in my own eyes the hatred I had been taught, the intolerance, the lack of empathy — empathy that I had always been told would make me weak. A weakness that would not be tolerated.

A weakness that now burned my insides. I didn't need to be jailed, I didn't need to be punished, I had my own living hell inside me. I had blood on my hands that could never be washed away. I had the memories of what I had done, and who I had done it for, and that alone was my sentence.

And when it came down to it, this war had been pointless. Yes, the Dark Lord had been vanquished, his minions had been rounded up and locked away, but those of us who remained were given a much harsher sentence than all of them combined. A life sentence, if you will, with memories of torture, of brutality, of pure evil.

This war hadn't taught me to be strong, or resilient. It hadn't taught me to forgive and forget. This war hadn't brought me any kind of peace.

No, what this war had taught me was that if I hid, if I lived in the shadows, if I remained nameless and faceless, if I didn't care about anything or anyone but myself, I had nothing to lose...

...right?


	3. Chapter 3

***** DRACO *****

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_A dark cupboard… a dead bird… an apple._

_Darkness._

_Hooded robes… silver masks… a Dark Mark._

_Darkness._

_A serpent… The Manor… Death Eaters._

_Darkness._

_Scarlet eyes… skeletal hands… a white wand._

_Darkness._

_Cries of help… threats of death… screams._

_Darkness._

_Her._

_Darkness._

_A wand at her throat._

_Her face. Her eyes looking at me, pleading for help, begging for it to stop._

_Her screams. Screams which were louder than I could stand._

_My own denials shouted. My cries pleading for the torture to end._

_The blood. Her blood. The agony. That word etched in her arm. _That _word. That disgusting word that would mar her skin for life._

_My arm reaching for her and clasping at nothing but air._

_Her eyes staring blankly at me, blinking slowly shut, losing all hope, her life fading..._

I bolted upright into the pitch-black room, the blanket tangled around me, twisted and knotted, strangling me like ivy overtaking the trunk of a tree. I tore at it, yanking it from my body, and gasped repeatedly for air, seeming to be unable to fill my lungs. I stared around wildly, terror ripping through me, sweat beading on my skin despite the freezing temperature of the room.

I'd not slept in almost three days. The knowledge that she had seen me — and the fear that she had revealed that fact — had gnawed at my insides and almost turned me inside out. And in my agitated state I had done little more than prowl the small space around me like a caged animal. Pacing back and forth across the bare floorboards, occasionally circling the couch or pausing intermittently to stare blindly out the window, my mind had been completely blank with the exception of her. And that exception — the simple act of seeing her — meant I would dream if I allowed myself to sleep. So I had paced, and paced, and paced, stopping only to swallow more scotch and a few scraps of food that my stomach could barely take in.

I had, of course, eventually succumbed. Sheer exhaustion had caused me to become unsteady on my feet and stumble, crashing like a sack of shit into the wall. I'd managed to upright myself before lurching across the room and landing heavily on the couch, dragging the blanket over me. My last thought before diving into the abyss of unconsciousness was a prayer of hope that the exhaustion would stave off the nightmares.

But my hope was false, and my prayer went unanswered.

Nauseous and dizzy from the screaming inside my head, I began to rock back and forth. I was utterly lost as I stared into the blackness, and the words that had become all too familiar began playing on a loop in my head.

_Too dark. Too dark. It's too dark._

Nights _were_ too dark in the small space — it was the reason why I slept during the day. The darkness held too many demons and waking from a nightmare in the daylight wasn't nearly as heart-stopping as waking in the blinding blackness of the night. And in my exhausted state, I hadn't remembered to leave a light on.

_The light, _my mind told me. _Turn the light on now. _But I was almost frozen, too fearful of reaching out into the black void of the room.

Clenching my fist, I swallowed hard. _I can do this. There's nothing here. Nothing can hurt me._

I repeated the words over and over, knowing that all I needed to do was reach out and turn the light on, but my brain was still trapped in my nightmare. I felt too exposed in the darkness — too vulnerable — and I was terrified that an unseen, skeletal hand would reach out and grab mine. I felt like a child who was terrified of the monsters under the bed. The only difference was, I knew that those monsters actually existed. I had fought them —was still fighting them — and I was losing yet another battle.

And it was yet another reminder of just how truly useless I was.

My entire body was shaking, and my heart was in my throat as I swore into the blackness, telling myself that the war was over, that the Dark Lord had fallen. _I was safe. I was alone. It was just a dream_. I gritted my teeth and whipped my arm out, my fingers finding the lamp on the floor beside the couch. A dull light rid the room of the terrifying darkness, but it did very little to ease the constriction in my chest, or the visions in my head.

It was always the same dream, but the terror was worse each time my unconscious brain replayed it for me. It was a constant reminder of my part in the war. A constant reminder of exactly what I did, of how many losses I was responsible for.

And at the end, it was always Granger lying on the stone floor with my insane aunt hovering over her, torturing her. The screams of agony that tore from Granger's throat as the word appeared on her skin echoing around the room. It was always the same haunted look of fear in her eyes. The single tear falling along the bridge of her nose as she lay tormented and dying on the floor of my childhood home. My subconscious always amplified her screams inside my head, piercing the sounds through my ears, forcing me to wake up, unable to breathe.

I didn't stop it then, being the coward that I was, and now I could never stop it. My dream — my nightmare — would never allow the torture to end. And in those nightmares, I felt even weaker. I would run to her but could never get close enough. I would call her name, but she would only ever stare back blankly. I would reach for her, would scream for it all to stop, but the torture would always continue.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited — the rational side of my brain unable to assuage my irrational thoughts of her being dead. But instead of calming with the knowledge that I saw her alive and well just three days ago, my anxiety grew. My heart was thumping hard against my ribs, my nerves were like a live current zinging through my body. And it was a feeling I hated.

It was overwhelming, almost suffocating. A heavy blanket of fog surrounding me and leaving me with no way to get out. My chest ached and I felt helpless. My heightened anxiety was always something I struggled to control. And when the one thing I had been taught — had _mastered_ — over the course of my life was control, the struggle to now do so was just another daily nightmare.

In a desperate attempt to bring myself back under that control, I focused on the one thing in my flat that was a constant. The steady drip, drip, drip of the leaking bathroom taps always brought me back to reality. It had driven me almost to the point of insanity in the first weeks after I'd moved in, but now it was the one thing — no, the _only_ thing — that I could rely on.

The even sound began to calm me, my heart slowing to beat in time with the steady rhythm of each drip. My breathing became less laboured, allowing me to finally take a full breath. The frigid air burned my empty lungs, but the burn was a welcome feeling as the constriction in my chest began to ease.

Opening my eyes, I shifted my focus towards the door, concentrating, listening for whispered voices, for the shuffle of feet. I was sure — despite not having left my flat in the days since I had seen her — she had found me, positive she had somehow followed me and was now outside my door. Or worse, they were _all_ out there —Potter and Weasley — laughing, waiting for me to fall at their feet and beg forgiveness.

Time ground to a halt; minutes became hours, then days, as I waited for them all to burst through my door. It would be what I deserved — their pointing and mocking. I had fallen from what I had assumed was my top place in society, and I had fallen hard.

But my family's name meant I had no choice. I was simply expected to appease my father's purpose. And that purpose was to do the bidding of a delusional psychopath.

My father had been ruthless and cunning for the entirety of his life. And the tactics with which he had manoeuvred himself to the inner circle of the Dark Lord were even more so. But as ruthless and cunning as my father was, the Dark Lord knew his greatest weakness.

My mother.

And of course, in turn, my father had used her against me.

"You _will_ do this, Draco." He had hissed, "You will do as you are bid, and you will do it without question. Your mother will be harmed, and her blood will be on your hands if you refuse."

"He's delusional, Father." I had stopped caring as to where my allegiances were supposed to lie. I had seen long before my father that we were on the wrong side and it would be to our detriment if we remained. "The world will be worse for his being in control. He's not brilliant, nor insightful, he's a fucking mad man who would kill her without a thought, regardless of what _you've_ promised I will do for him."

"You are a Malfoy." My father glared at me. "Your blood is purer than even that of the Dark Lord. You will _not_ disgrace this family. What you have been asked to do is the envy of all others. And you will honour the Lord's request."

"So, you would gladly sacrifice the life of your wife and the wellbeing of your only son, just to sit beside that psychopath?"

"He will rid this world of the impure blood which taints it."

"He's a half-blood; therefore, his own blood is not pure and taints this world also," I spat. "The purist propaganda he speaks is hypocritical at best, and you are as big of a fool as he is if you think he will win this war."

My father's chest expanded, and he rose to his full height, looking down on me with a sneer which he reserved for only the lowest in society. "Enough. You will do as you are asked. And you will do it of your own volition."

"My _own_ volition? _Right_." I laughed, "And if I say _no_?"

His jaw twitched and his nostrils flared, "Then your mother's life will be ended."

I shrugged, hating the thought of what could possibly happen to her but kept my calm. "As would mine. And yours as well, Father. Your precious Lord won't stand for insubordination."

He gripped my arm, his fingers digging fiercely into my skin, "You will _not_ refuse, Draco. You will take the Mark and you will destroy the man who has allowed the impure blood to flood our world."

He spun on his heel, storming away, leaving me without a choice.

So, thanks to my father's bargain to be at the right hand of the Dark Lord, I'd been in a living hell, stuck with the repercussions of his actions — as well as mine — of which he no longer had any memory.

Of course, by the time my father realised that he had, in fact, chosen the wrong side, it was too late. Even if victory had ensued, if The Order had fallen and the Dark Lord had remained, we would have been on the side of pure evil.

But I was also at fault. As much as my father. As much as the blind insanity that was my aunt. As much as the Dark Lord himself. I had been responsible for the downfall of more people than I wanted to think about. And that thought alone was more than any one person should ever have to deal with. But add to the fact that I'd been the one to allow Death Eaters entry into the school, I had allowed my godfather to kill for me, I had allowed Granger to be tortured, and the mocking and the accusations that were aimed in my direction were well deserved.

I shivered, as much from the thought of the lives that had been lost as from the iciness of the room. In my exhaustive state, I'd not put the heat on and my now steady breath was being exhaled in cloud-like puffs.

Admonishing myself for forgetting something so simple, I twisted to put my feet on the floor. I winced, lifting them immediately and cursing again at my stupidity — the floorboards felt like they were frozen solid.

Scrubbing my hands across my face, I glanced around at my surroundings, laughing a single, humourless _ha_ at the shit-show my life had become. Afraid of the dark, and unable to even remember something as simple as turning on the heat so I didn't freeze to death. I really was a useless waste of space.

Forcing myself to stand, I shook my head in an attempt to clear the dizzy feeling and glanced across the room — I needed a shower. I needed scalding hot water to wash away the nightmare. I needed to strip myself clean of the horrors, of the self-loathing. I needed to forget the last few days and pretend that I hadn't seen her.

I fired up the small heater to stave off the cold, before moving into the bathroom and starting the shower, stripping off my jeans and t-shirt while the water warmed. I stepped under the stream, ducking my head and letting the warmth rain down over me. Although, as good as it felt, it would never be enough.

I could take a thousand showers and still I would never feel like I was clean. The blood of far too many lives was seared into my skin and no amount of water could ever wash it away.

Shaking my head, I adjusted the taps, turning the water to an almost scalding temperature and I reached for the soap. Working the bar into a lather, I ran my hands over my stomach, my chest, up my neck…

I winced, as my forearm came into sight.

_The Mark._ The Mark that was etched onto my arm. Like hers, it was a burden that I hadn't asked for, nor was it one that I had wanted. It had been forced on me under the pretence of it being my own choice when it was anything but.

My eyes had never left those of my father's as The Mark had been anointed on me. I hadn't flinched, hadn't made one sound. I had simply stared him down, letting him know that I would never forgive him. And it wasn't until the Dark Lord welcomed me into the fold that my father's eyes dropped from mine, the only sign he showed that he felt any regret.

I ran the soap over my arm, knowing full well that I couldn't simply wash it away, but doing so nonetheless. I hated to look at it, hated what it stood for. I wanted to strip it from my skin, wanted the evidence of my father's betrayal gone. I wanted to be free of the past I had tried so hard to forget.

My subconscious kicked in and I scrubbed harder, eventually dropping the soap and scratching at my skin, panic setting in once more.

_What if she did find me? What if she saw it? Would she be as disgusted with it as I was?_

A sudden wave of nausea rolled over me, and a severe cramp tightened my gut and burned beneath my ribs. My stomach lurched and I gagged, a retching sound tore from my throat. I pressed my hands to the tiles, swallowing hard, willing the feeling away. But it was pointless.

My head dropped forward and gagging again, I vomited at my feet.

_Fuck_.

I took a deep breath, my body shaking heavily as I exhaled. My head was swimming as I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth, sure I was about to pass out. I kept my head bowed and tried to pull myself together. The stress of seeing her was too much. And days without sleep, little to no food, and too much scotch, were now coming back to haunt me.

Another nauseous wave hit me, and a rush of dizzying vertigo spun the room around me. I snapped my eyes shut, breathing deeply, waiting for the feeling to pass. But closing my eyes just made the feeling worse. And the vision of her face staring blankly back at mine swam behind my eyes.

Shaky, still nauseous, I turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Grabbing a towel, I pressed it to my face - avoiding my reflection in the partially fogged over mirror — and took another long, trembling breath.

I felt even more trapped. The nightmares were bad enough but seeing her had stirred up an onslaught of memories that I'd long tried to bury. I was scared to death over what Granger was going to do. She was far too shrewd to simply leave our chance encounter to rest. She would continue to seek me out, and she wouldn't stop until she got the answers she wanted.

Clearing the fog from the mirror with the towel, I dragged my hand through my wet hair and took in my reflection. I looked like hell. My eyes were heavy, the exhaustion and strain of the last few days wearing me thin. My face was gaunt — the vampire description was apt — pale and drawn, hollowed cheeks, dead eyes. I needed to eat more and drink less, but drinking less meant more nightmares, which in turn meant looking even less human.

It was a cycle of which I saw no way of breaking.

I dressed, pulling on the same pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt and stepped back into my now warm flat. My head whipped to the side as a floorboard creaked, and quiet voices sounded in the hallway outside my door. But the voices faded, and I assumed they were my neighbours leaving for the day. The wind outside pushed against the window, rattling the glass, letting me know that the icy temperatures outside still remained. Winter had set in and I was sure that the snow would join the wind and rain in the days to come.

Moving to stand in front of the window, I watched as dawn crept slowly across the city, the dark sky turning grey, then yellow, and then red as the sun made its way through the fog and the low clouds. It was my first sunrise in months, and I was seeing it as I woke rather than as I was headed for sleep.

And the thought of whether she was watching the same scene flitted through my head.

The guilt of her torture had always sat inside me but seeing her again had brought forth an aching pain that I hadn't yet encountered. An ache that was confusing.

Closing my eyes, I tried to filter my thoughts. I hadn't seen her in years, yet she plagued my nightmares. I had belittled her, had hated her, had fought against her kind, and yet she had shown me compassion; she had defended me.

She hadn't done what I expected and peppered me with questions, wanting to know every minute detail of my life. Instead, she had sat quietly beside me and hadn't judged, had only been concerned.

My breath shook again, and I gripped the back of my neck, all my thoughts leaving me until only one remained.

The wind and the rain, the city sprawled before me, the sunrise outside my window. It was all there, right in front of me. But it all seemed fake.

She was the only thing that felt real.


	4. Chapter 4

.

* * *

****** DRACO ******

* * *

Eight steps.

The total distance from one side of my flat to the other was eight whole steps.

There were two air vents, each had four screws holding them to the walls. The fifth floorboard from the window squeaked, as did the one outside the bathroom door. The leaking taps in the bathroom dripped every three and a half seconds. A crack in the wall above the bed — ironically — resembled a lightning bolt.

My neighbour's door slammed shut at 6.32 every morning and the third step from the landing outside my door groaned whenever it was stood on. A dirty-looking pigeon landed on my windowsill every morning just after sunrise, tapped its beak on the glass until I opened the blind, and then stared in at me.

The little things, the 'stop and smell the roses' things that I'd loathed just a week ago, had now become my life.

I'd holed up in my flat for seven long days, the small space becoming my refuge, and the intricacies of that space my new obsession. The minutiae which I had never noticed before came to the forefront of my attention. The tiny elements — nails in the floorboards, cracks in the paint, the crooked bathroom doorway — were all details which had been completely irrelevant, and which I'd failed to even notice in the year and a half since I'd moved in.

I'd deliberately stayed away from the pub, still fearful that Granger would be waiting for me the second I returned. I could have found another pub, I supposed, but that would have meant starting over.

Eddie knew me — well, as much as I allowed him to know me — and the regulars who sat at the bar had learned early on not to make conversation with me. They would simply give me a cursory nod, or a quiet _hello_, and then leave me alone. It was safe. It was comfortable. It was routine.

And that was exactly what I needed — routine. It kept my anxiety at bay, kept my thoughts in line. It kept my existence simple. It was what I needed to anchor myself, to stop myself from becoming more lost than I already was.

Routine.

I slept during the day. I spent my nights reading. I forced myself to eat at the same times each day. I showered. I stood staring out the window. I dreamt the same dream. I obsessively counted and recounted everything in my flat for hours on end.

The only change in my routine was that I finally allowed myself to think of her. She was the reality I needed — I craved — but she was also the fear that stopped my heart.

She still screamed in my nightmares, but she had also become the constant picture of calm in the craziness that swirled inside my head. A moment of gut-twisting panic had hit me at the realisation and I'd asked myself repeatedly, _how the fuck had that happened?_

Why it was her, of all people, who was the calming influence was a mystery.

We weren't friends, we were barely acquaintances. We'd been civil after the war — a brief nod of acknowledgement in passing, but that had been it. And in the four years since my father received The Kiss, and I'd disappeared myself from society, I'd not seen her once.

I knew she appeared in my nightmares out of my own guilt, that much was obvious, but the sense of calm that I'd begun to feel in my waking hours was baffling. Was it because I'd seen her and now knew that she was perfectly fine? Or was it because she had shown me the smallest amount of compassion, that maybe she had forgiven me?

Or was it that she had given me something that I hadn't expected?

Her kindness had hit me harder than a _Stupefy_, and her simple gesture of concern had played over and over in my head. And it definitely felt real.

I put my hand on the window. The glass was cold. Another thing that had become real. The world outside.

I was still fighting against it, still trying to avoid it, pretending that nothing outside the walls of my flat existed. But I now found myself waiting for my neighbour's door to slam shut, and for the stupid bird to land on my windowsill. And I hated it. Hated that I'd become reliant on the idiosyncrasies that had become my life.

I shut my eyes, focusing, pushing everything out of my mind. As much as I wanted to pretend the world didn't exist, I knew that I needed to go outside. I needed to get away from what had the potential to become yet another unbreakable habit.

I locked the door of my flat and headed down the stairs, pausing at the door which led to the street.

_She wasn't outside. She wouldn't be there. She wouldn't know that I would be there. _

She wouldn't be there to tell me how perfect her life was, how successful she was. She wouldn't be there to tell me how much of a failure I had become, how I didn't fit into this world. And how I never would.

Taking a breath, I told myself to stop being a pathetic git; she could have told me all of that a week ago but she hadn't.

I pushed the door open and stepped onto the street. Craning my neck back, I looked at the sky. The night was the colour of tar, the blackness broken only by the thick clouds which hid the stars. The full moon fought for dominance, shining through the cloud breaks but, like me, was losing the battle.

Ducking my head back down, I winced against the sharp wind, and pulled my hood over my head, contemplating if I should've just stayed in. I stared down at my feet, and they seemed to move of their own accord, heading me towards the pub, and crunching through the icy layer of snow that had fallen during the day.

I walked for several streets, listening to the sounds of the chaotic traffic and trying, but failing, to ignore the insanity that had returned to my thoughts.

_It was too soon. She'll be there. I should have stayed home, waited a few more days. _

Slowing my pace and wondering if I should have trusted my instincts and turned back around, I lifted my head and saw the pub just half a street away. My heartbeat picked up as I drew closer, and a perplexing thought broke through the madness inside my head — what if she _wasn't_ there?

It was a thought that pulled me up.

I stopped, frozen in place, and stared at the door. I'd been assuming that she would be waiting for me, but what if she wasn't there? What if I'd spent the last week hidden away for no reason? What if she'd simply shrugged off seeing me and not given me another thought?

The familiar warmth hit me when I finally opened the door. The rich, ingrained odours — aged wood, cigarette smoke, spilled booze — flooded my senses, welcoming me back as I tentatively stepped inside.

Scanning the room, I saw some of the faces I had come to know lined up along the bar in their usual places. My gaze shifted and took in the spot where I usually sat.

It was occupied.

An odd sensation curled in my chest. I didn't want to see her, didn't want to talk to her, didn't want to be in the same room as her. But at the same time, I did. The temptation to turn and leave was strong, but I pushed the feeling aside; I wouldn't run away again, not because of her.

"_Ah_, the prodigal vampire returns," Eddie said with a grin when he spotted me. "I figured a slayer got you."

Giving him a fleeting smile, barely acknowledging him, I sat at the opposite end of the bar. Keeping my head down, resolutely not looking at her, I felt the weight of her eyes on me.

"She's been here all week," Eddie informed me quietly and placed my usual three fingers of Macallan on the bar in front of me. "Every night, sitting _right there_, waiting."

I nodded, but still remained silent.

"And she's not asked about you—" He tapped his finger on the bar "—in case you were wondering."

I frowned as he moved away. _She_ _hadn't asked about me? Why would she come here every night and not ask? Why _was _she here? What did she want?_

I lifted the glass, the mild burn of the scotch warming me instantly, and flicked my gaze to her from across the bar. Her eyes were still locked on me, her face completely neutral, lacking any emotion that I could read. She was a sentinel, silently watching me. Another wave of guilt amassed in my chest. She'd come here every night and waited for me — was _still_ waiting for me —even after I'd been my usual acrimonious self.

I looked down at my hands, which were shaking. My nerves were shot and my thoughts conflicted. My behavior towards her during our school years flashed inside my head. My cruel taunts, my savage words, my intolerant attitude all should have been enough to keep her away.

But now that she _was_ here, I had two choices.

I could ignore her. Simply keep my head down, be the same self-righteous arsehole I had always been, and pretend she wasn't just a few feet away. Or, I could act like a mature adult, sit with her, buy her a drink, and apologise for my deplorable behaviour.

I shifted in my seat, both options making me squirm. I was curious about her life, but at the same time I didn't want to know anything about her. And I didn't want her to know anything about me. I wanted to keep up the walls that I'd built, and keep her — and everyone else — out of my life.

But the strange emotions she brought out in me were shifting my thoughts. I _thought_ solitude was what I wanted, I _thought_ being alone was the best way to protect myself, but her presence had made me question what it was that I truly needed.

Swallowing the rest of my drink, I stared at the empty glass. My resolve to not run from her was being tested, and I knew I couldn't do it. I couldn't be here while she was.

Glancing up, she was still watching me, but this time her expression had changed. She offered me a small smile, and I quickly looked away. I definitely couldn't do this. It was too much.

Eddie moved to pour me another drink, but I stopped him.

"No," I said with a shake of my head. "I'm not staying."

He frowned as I stood and bid him goodnight. "Mate, she's been here all week. Say _hello_ at least."

"She's…" I shook my head and tossed money on the bar. "I can't."

I made it halfway along the street when I heard her call my name. I paused, squeezed my eyes shut, took a few more steps, and then paused again.

"Draco?" She was closer, and I didn't realise how close until I felt her hand on my arm. "Draco, look at me, please?"

I took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly turned around. She was smiling — albeit tentatively — at me. Her mouth opened and closed, as if she she wanted to say more, but she said nothing.

We just stared at each other for what seemed like eternity. Before the previous week, I hadn't seen her this close since the day she testified in the Wizengamot six years ago. And now, even though her dark eyes were wide, startled at my appearance, she was still completely put together — poised and confident, with an elegant aura that she had always carried surrounding her.

But, of course, for a split second my mind went back in time, and I saw her on the floor of the Manor, distressed and bloodied, crying out in pain. The guilt pressed heavy in my chest again and my breathing began to shallow. She touched my arm again.

"Draco, are you alright?"

I nodded. It was all I could do. How she had managed to live through the hell that she had, and be standing before me like she was, astounded me. My life was a bitter twist of my own guilt, and she should have hated me for what I did instead of asking me if I was okay.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

I stared blankly at her, unable to comprehend what she was asking — the pictures of her tortured face were clouding every other thought.

"I know you don't believe me, Draco, but I do care." She smiled at me again, my silence not bothering her at all. "So, if you're here tomorrow night, maybe we can talk."

I wanted to say no. I wanted to get away from her. I wanted to control my life and continue to stay out of sight. But I'd never been in control of anything in my life, having been forced without choice to do what I knew to be heinous and dishonourable.

She was still smiling at me, waiting for me to decide.

To decide.

The heaviness in my chest lessened. I had control. I could say no and walk away. No doubt she'd still come back and wait for me, but she had given me a choice.

I continued to stare at her and she continued to wait. The air seemed to still around us, the noise of the traffic dulling into the background.

I had a choice.

"Maybe," I whispered, and I didn't miss the catch in her breath at the single word.

I turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after me.

* * *

I'd been staring out my window for an immeasurable amount of time. The only thing that told me that time _was_ still moving forward was the half-drunk bottle of scotch on the windowsill; a bottle which had been full when I returned to my flat.

The questions I should have asked her ran on a continual loop inside my head; why had she waited for me? Why was she was so insistent on talking to me? Was she after her own sense of redemption, to close the book on what had happened between us? Did she need to forgive me so she could move on?

And if she did forgive me, would I ever be able to forgive myself?

I had been sure that would never be possible. But the way she called after me, the reassuring touch of her hand on my arm, the gentle smile that lit up her eyes when I acknowledged her. _That_ gave me hope.

Hope that she no longer hated me.

Hope that maybe I could move on.

Pouring myself another glass of scotch, I dropped onto my couch, and tossed it down. I leaned my head back and stared up at the ceiling, letting the smoky, malt flavour mellow and go to my head. The heavy buzz of intoxication floated through me and allowed me to distance myself from everything once more.

Well, _almost_ everything.

For the first time in my life I'd been given the freedom of choice. And she'd been the one to allow me that. At the very least I should do the decent thing and show up, offer her the apology I owed her.

Of course, nothing I could say would ever make up for my treatment of her. Saying _sorry_ would barely be enough. The simple word was inadequate, and didn't come close to conveying just what I needed to say.

And my fear was still there. The fear of her judgement, of her deserved hatred. Fear, despite her reassurances of being concerned.

Part of me didn't believe that she was genuine, that she actually hated me and that this was just a ruse to get back at me for hurting her. And that thought had my anxiety threatening to fold me up again, telling me to stay hidden.

But another part of me said that she wouldn't have waited every night for me if she wasn't truly concerned. She wouldn't have followed me, wouldn't have called my name. She wouldn't have smiled — a smile which I remembered, but also a smile I no longer knew.

I blew out a long sigh. My emotions were raw; if the situation had been reversed, if the Dark Lord had won, I'd have not been given a choice and most likely would have thrown her to the wolves. I would not have shown her the compassion she was showing me.

And that was a thought that knotted my chest again.

If I could rewrite my history with Granger, I would do it. But unfortunately I couldn't go back in time and change what had happened. Time-turners weren't easy to come by, and no one would ever allow me one.

It would be easy — of course it would — to simply just _Obliviate_ the memories that caused me so much pain. But it would only be yet another cowardly act. And I would be living a lie, living with nothing in my mind but my own ego and the brainwashed ideology of my own self-importance.

I deserved to live with the memories. I deserved the daily reminder. I _didn't_ deserve to wish any of it away.

No amount of time could erase what had happened, and the subsequent years of self-doubt had become so ingrained into me, I couldn't see how anyone — especially her — could ever see past who I once was and forgive me.

I forced down the glimmer of hope that had sparked inside when she called my name, when she touched my arm. I couldn't allow myself that hope or to assume that she would forgive me.

Because now I wasn't sure what I needed more; Granger's forgiveness, or her touch.

* * *

**A/N:**

**My apologies to you all for taking forever to get this out to you. A few other projects have held it up, but my focus is back, and hopefully the rest of it can get to you at regular intervals. **

**And, as always, my complete gratitude and appreciation to everyone who has read and commented on this piece xx **


	5. Chapter 5

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* * *

****** DRACO ******

* * *

Sitting at the bar, twirling the glass between my fingers, I shifted uncomfortably. My nerves were shot and my stomach felt sick.

For the past twenty four hours I hadn't been able to put her out of my mind. I'd bounced back and forth between doing the right thing and meeting with her, and ignoring her request and staying hidden. I'd almost convinced myself to not show, but my conscience — or at least what was left of it — wouldn't allow me to leave her sitting alone again.

But now I was asking myself what the fuck I was doing. My heart was racing, pounding hard in my chest, and I was fighting to keep my breathing calm. The eyes of everyone at the bar were on me, and the reason was obvious; her.

I'd said as little as possible to these people, had not allowed them to know anything about me. I'd let them make up their own story, let them assume what they'd liked about me. But now they'd had a glimpse into my life, albeit a small one, and I wasn't entirely comfortable with that fact. Clearly they suspected I knew her — the fact she had chased me out of the pub the previous night had established that to be true. And the added pressure of their curiosity was causing me to rethink my decision to show up.

But their curiosity wasn't the only reason I was questioning my decision.

My expectation had been that she would be here once more, waiting patiently for me. But my stomach dropped when I stepped through the door and she was nowhere to be seen. My every instinct was to assume I'd been right; she'd taken the chance I was sure she had been waiting years for, and had played me.

Of course, I reverted to type and anger began eating at me. I was hardly able to believe my own stupidity; she'd set a trap and I'd fallen right into it.

"I guess vampires aren't for everyone," Eddie said with a laugh. "You seemed to have scared your girl off."

_Your girl? _

_Is that what he thought? _

_Is that what they all thought? _

"She's not my anything," I muttered, hating the odd sensation that stirred inside me at my own reality of my life was that she was everything to me; my nightmares, my guilt, my every thought. But she was also the light in my otherwise dark world.

"A _week_, my friend. She's been here every night for a week." Eddie leaned on the bar in front of me. "A girl doesn't sit in a pub for a week for nothing. "

"Well, she's not here now," I said sourly, feeling like a complete fool.

He smirked, "But _you_ are. Waiting, just like she did. That definitely makes her _something_ to you, doesn't it?"

I glared at him and cursed her name under my breath. Finishing my drink, I moved to stand, but the sound of the door opening caused my head to jerk up and my breath to catch.

Her face was flushed, as if she'd been hurrying to get here, and her eyes were frantic as she scanned the room. She breathed a notable sigh of relief when she saw me.

"I guess that answers my question," Eddie chuckled and moved away.

Cursing again — this time at myself — I sat back down. Patience had never been my forte. I'd barely been in the pub for twenty minutes, and my first instinct was to assume the worst. She _had_ shown up. She hadn't played me. And I was a total arse for thinking that she had.

I couldn't look away, my eyes following her as she moved towards me. Her frizz of hair was rippling around her face and shoulders, her smile bright, and her brown eyes were glittering in the low light. And I now knew why it was that I had gone from telling her to leave me the fuck alone, to not being able to think of anything but her in only a week.

She was… staggering.

It had been years since I'd actually looked at a woman. I'd spent so much time in my own head, in my own misery, that women hadn't even been a thought, let alone anything else.

But now Granger was coming towards me and I was struggling to remember my own name.

"Hi," she began, slightly breathless, untangling the scarf from her neck and shrugging off the heavy coat she was wearing. She nodded at the empty chair beside me, and I smiled quickly, bewildered at her asking again for permission to sit.

"Sorry." She slid into the chair. "I got held up at work."

_Sorry_. The one word I'd been stewing over and she made it sound so easy.

I nodded, ashamed of my immediate reaction to her absence. She had a life of her own and clearly that life was busy. And she had no means with which to communicate to me that she would be late since an owl showing up at a Muggle pub would have raised some questions.

She answered in the affirmative when Eddie asked if she was having 'the usual' and then remained quiet beside me. Again, I had expected a barrage of questions, but she appeared to be waiting for me to speak first.

I had no idea what to say or even where to start. And honestly, I was glad she wasn't asking anything. I wasn't sure that my answers would satisfy her curiosity. My life was a series of dull moments, interspersed with even duller ones.

"Draco?" Her voice was quiet and when I looked at her, I was met with eyes looking a little anxious. "Thank you."

_Thank you? _

I frowned. "For what?"

"For meeting me." She picked up her glass and I noted the tiny tremor in her hand.

_Was she as nervous as I was?_

"I know it was a lot of me to ask you to be here, so thank you."

I scrubbed my hand through my hair. _Bloody hell. _She'd now apologised _and_ thanked me. This was all wrong.

"_Ah_, yeah. It's fine," I mumbled, not knowing what was even happening.

"Okay, good." She returned to her drink.

We were both quiet — Granger vanishing her drink slowly, and me staring at the amber liquid in the glass nestled between my palms. The air around us was not necessarily tense, but it definitely held a somber weight. I wanted to speak, wanted to say something, _anything_, but asking her about her life meant she would do the same to me. And my life was not a subject that held any interest for anyone.

But then it hit me; there was one thing I _did_ need to know.

"Did you tell them?" I asked, not looking at her.

"No," She replied without hesitation. "My finding you is not their business."

I glanced at her, seeing the sincerity in her face. But clearly mine didn't reflect the same.

"You don't believe me?"

"I wouldn't blame you if you did tell them." I shrugged, "Their mockery would be well deserved."

"We're adults," she stated simply, "Childhood grudges belong in the past."

"And do your friends think the same?"

"People change, Draco. _All_ of my friends have left the childishness behind them." She sipped her drink and gave me a curious look. "Are you assuming that Ron and I are still together, and that Harry and Ginny are happily married?"

"The only thing I _assumed_ was that you and the Weasel—" I stopped. What was it that she said about childhood grudges? "That you and _Weasley_ aren't together."

"And that's based on…"

I nodded towards her hand. "No ring; wedding or engagement. I would assume that after six years he would have asked. So, either he's slower than I thought, or you've split."

"That's, _ah_—" her lips fought a smile "—very observant of you, Draco."

_Fuck. _

My obsessiveness of the last seven days had already formed into a compulsive habit. The absence of a ring was the first thing I'd noticed when she sat down.

She touched my arm and smiled. "We're all still friends, Draco. But like I said, we've all changed."

I turned away from her and huffed out a humourless laugh. _We've all changed._ That may have been the case in her world.

"It was purely coincidental that I was in here last week. Ginny and Blaise have just bought a house nearby and suggested we check out the pubs in the area."

I almost choked on my drink. _Ginny and Blaise? What? _

"Ron and Daphne just had their first child. And Harry and Pansy will be married in three months."

This time I did choke.

"We've changed, Draco. All of us. We've put the past behind us and moved on."

I stared at her. Speechless.

_Changed_ may not have been adequate. Four years wasn't long, or so I thought, but if what she was saying was true, four years had been a lifetime.

"You still don't believe me?"

I shook my head. _Pansy and Potter? Blaise and Ginny? Daphne and Weasley? _She had no reason to lie but it all sounded insane.

"It's all true, Draco." Granger held my eyes with hers, "And I know they'd love to see—"

"No."

"Draco, you can see how much they've all changed—"

"I said _no_." I turned away from her again. "I agreed to meet you, and that's it."

I saw her tiny nod in my periphery and she fell back into silence, making me feel like a complete arse.

There was no _real_ reason to continue to shut them out, but I'd existed for so long on my own, the thought of having to deal with my former friends set my heart racing. And seeing them was exactly what I didn't need — what I was afraid of.

"Granger, I can't." I shut my eyes, "Not now. I just… not now."

Her hand pressed gently against the middle of my back. "I didn't mean to push. I'm sorry."

Inhaling a deep breath, I turned back to her. She was looking at me with a wistful smile — not sympathetic, not pity, just contemplative. And with that simple expression, I realised that she had a much softer side than the pushy, know-it-all I remembered.

She wasn't lying when she said she was worried about me, that she cared. And the fact that she had kept the knowledge of my whereabouts to herself astounded me. She'd given me more than I deserved. And the question of _why_ was tying my insides into knots.

She knew what I'd done.

She knew who I'd hurt.

She knew who I'd killed.

And instead of thinking the worst of me, of _hating_ me, she was sitting beside me, her hand on my back like a beacon of hope.

"I don't want to see them." I paused, took a breath, and then added in a softer tone. "Not yet."

"Not ever, if you don't want to."

"That's what I'd prefer," I said, more gruffly than I intended but she didn't seem to care.

"If that's what you need." She moved her hand from my back and I immediately missed her touch. "And I won't tell them. You have my word."

I cocked a brow. "Why are you really here, Granger?"

She pondered my question, then tilted her head and smiled. "You disappeared. No one knew where you went. The Aurors couldn't trace you since you'd done nothing illegal. You didn't answer any owls. I don't want to pry into your life, and as curious as I may be about you, your reasons for wanting privacy aren't any of my business. But we all went through hell, you more than any of us, and I just wanted to know that you're okay."

_She didn't want to pry? _Granger always wanted to pry, she always wanted to know everything. I would have found it hard to believe that she'd changed _that_ much, but her quiet demeanour, her lack of questions, the simple fact that she was even sitting here with me, all led me to think that she definitely had.

"I'm fine," I answered quickly, "I get up, I breathe, I go back to sleep. Not much else to tell you."

Her eyes dropped to her lap and I saw the furrow between her brows. "Sorry," she murmured quietly, "I guess I am prying."

_Fuck_. Another apology from her and I'd not yet uttered one.

"Honestly, Granger, there's nothing in my life that is worth prying into. I keep to myself and do very little. It's easier that way." I gave her a half smile, "You've changed... but not that much."

"What do you mean?"

"You care about people that you shouldn't. People who treated you like crap." I looked away from her, the simple word sticking in my throat. _Sorry_. It should have been easy to say, but it was far too inadequate for how I had treated her.

"Are you apologising, Draco Malfoy?"

"I'm trying to."

She leaned over and bumped my shoulder. "Thank you."

* * *

She followed me out of the pub and I stood awkwardly in front of her. A warmth I'd not experienced in a long time burned through me, and I was grateful for the darkness as the heat spread to my cheeks.

Everything about her had been unexpected. Her reaction to my attempted apology — the way she'd almost waved it off like it wasn't necessary — was no exception. And she hadn't pried further into my life, sensing that I had not wanted to talk about anything that put me in the spotlight.

Instead she had quietly told me about her work at Gringotts. She had surprised everyone, she said, when she took a job there as a trainee curse-breaker and was now happily working with Bill Weasley.

However, as unexpected as she had been, in my mind her career choice was the least surprising thing about her. Her Arithmancy skills had always been outstanding — not that I would have ever admitted that, or even acknowledged _anything_ positive about her while we were at school.

But now, Granger had triggered something inside me. Yes, she had pissed me off when she'd shown up out of the blue, but by the time I'd lashed out at her and stormed home, a heavy ache had settled in my chest.

And the feelings that ache had caused filled me with an anxiety that I couldn't quite understand.

I was someone who had treated her like a piece of shit since I'd known her. I'd thought nothing of my harsh words, of my pointing out her every flaw, of my derogatory comments about who her friends were. But the thought that she may have been hurt — yet again — by my words had left me with the uneasy feeling that I'd been too harsh with her.

"You must be freezing," she remarked, breaking me from my thoughts. "Do you not have a coat?"

I shoved my hands into my pockets, "I'm fine."

"You keep saying that." She lifted her hand, hesitated, and then dropped it. "But are you really?"

"I tell myself I am." I shrugged. "That's the best I can do right now. My past isn't as easy to forget as yours."

"It's okay to remember the past, Draco, but you need to try harder to let it go." This time she gripped my arm and squeezed it gently. "Because if you don't, the past will never cease to haunt you."

I nodded, but those sentiments were easier said than done.

"Can we meet here next week?" Her voice was tentative, "You can tell me to shove off, I don't want to crowd you, Draco, but—"

"I'll be here on Tuesday," I interrupted, choosing a random day. I'd most likely be in the pub all week, but I didn't want her to know that.

"Tuesday. Perfect." Her gaze was thoughtful and before I could protest, she unwound the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around my own. "Take this. It'll keep you warm."

My head was spinning as she bid me goodnight and crossed the street. I gave myself a minute to take a few deep breaths.

I had no idea what just happened. Were we friends now? Would this be a weekly occurrence? Would she be happy to meet me at the pub each week, or would she eventually expect to expand any boundaries? Or would she realise that I hadn't changed at all, that I was a lost cause and quickly tire of me?

I was afraid to admit that I was terrified of what would happen if she did get under my skin, if I let her in. I'd been so angry for so long, I no longer knew how to be anything but angry. And if she saw _that_, saw how I really was, she would definitely end up hating me.

And the very fact that I was experiencing an unfamiliar sense of dread at her abandoning me, when this had been the only significant time I'd spent with her, had my anxiety building again.

I didn't want to become attached to her, didn't want to rely on her. I'd been blindsided by my father and his ambition, and I had vowed I would never rely on anyone but myself ever again.

I didn't need this. I didn't need anyone.

I didn't need her.

I didn't even know her. Not really.

But something inexplicable made me want to change that. I wanted to know why she cared. I wanted to know why there was no ring on her finger. I wanted to know what made her so stubborn she would wait for me in a pub for a week.

I wanted to know everything, that just a week ago, I couldn't have cared less about.

I wanted get to know her from the inside out.

I pressed her scarf to my face. It was still warm from her skin and I breathed in her scent, watching her until she was out of sight.

And hoping that despite our pasts, she wouldn't give up on me.


	6. Chapter 6

.

* * *

****** DRACO ******

* * *

I was calm.

For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. No stress. No insanity inside my head. Just a feeling of peace.

And the reason was right in front of me.

Her scent surrounded me, light and sweet, filling the air. Her eyes, rich and vibrant, staring at me. Her face, beautiful and radiant, the tiny freckles standing out on her skin.

Her hand reached up to my face and I leaned into her touch. I had to close my eyes… she was so beautiful.

How could I have forgotten that?

How could I forget all those years of admiring her from afar? How could I have forgotten what I felt when I was close to her? How could I have thought that walking away from my old life — _from her_ — would be wise?

She smiled at me, leaning in, the tip of her tongue sliding along her lips.

"Draco."

The fingers touching my face were suddenly offering a wand to me.

_No. No. No._

Crazy eyes bored into me, a voice twisted with insanity and dripping with hatred spoke my name close to my ear.

_Draco.  
__Kill her, Draco.  
__Kill the Mudblood._

Her beautiful, smiling face was gone. Granger was screaming, pleading for the torture to end.

I sat up abruptly, still half asleep, the conflicting images of her smile and her tortured face clouding my vision. Her scarf was twisted around my hand, my knuckles white from the force of my grip on it.

"Granger," I whispered her name, my voice a choking mix of need and fear.

I lifted the scarf to my face — it had become something of a security blanket in the days since she'd given it to me — and I sucked in slow, deep breaths of air until my heart rate calmed and the vision cleared.

_She's fine. She talked to me. She gave me her scarf. She's fine._

I groaned and crashed back down to the bed, completely covering my face with her scarf, breathing in the lingering scent of her on the soft wool.

_When would this all end?_

Would it be with her? Was that what this dream meant? What all of them meant? Was I unable to move on because I hadn't begged for her forgiveness? Because I hadn't forgiven myself?

Feelings and emotions were not something I shared willingly, and I had no idea where to even start. How did you tell someone that every time you closed your eyes you saw their tortured face? How did you tell someone your every thought was the guilt of that torture being your fault?

How did you tell someone who had been through a worse hell than you, that you were afraid of the dark?

Her words had stuck with me _...okay to remember the past ...the past will never cease to haunt you._ But my words had also rang true. My past was not easy to forget.

She had used logic, common sense, and knowledge far superior to anyone on either side of the war. She had used _Stupefy_ and _Obliviate_. She had used concealment charms.

She'd used nothing that would cause long-lasting harm.

Me? I'd been responsible for death and destruction. I'd been responsible for hurt and pain. And they were things that were impossible to forgive.

I shook my head, the soft wool of her scarf caressing my skin, and I asked myself again; when would this all end?

* * *

"Ron and Daphne started it all," Granger said. "They met about four years ago, got married a year later. Baby Noah arrived two months ago."

I didn't respond.

Tuesday had finally come around and it had been with nervous anticipation that I'd stalked around my tiny flat in the hours prior to meeting her. The four days since we'd parted outside the pub had gone by at a snail's pace, and the only thing keeping me from spiraling deeper was her scarf.

It had become my anchor, and was never more than an arm's length away from me.

And I hadn't wanted to part with it; the mere thought of doing so had brought with it my worst nightmare yet.

Her dying, gasping breaths had pulled me once more from my sleep, sweating, reaching for her, and crying out her name. The image of her tortured and lifeless body had stuck with me for hours afterward.

And it was that image — her lifeless form — that made me want to hold onto the tiny, inanimate piece of her.

"Draco?"

My head snapped towards her and I yanked my arm away, startled by her touch. Her face was concerned; my own expression must have been dire. I wasn't even aware that I'd stopped listening, but the image of her in my head was hard to unsee.

"Draco?" She said again, her voice quiet, calming. "I don't have to tell you about them, if you're not interested."

I stared down at the bar, at my hands wrapped tightly around my glass. I closed my eyes and shook my head.

"I dream about you."

The words were out before I could stop them, and were met with silence. Not even a gasp of surprise.

I berated myself for being so stupid. I'd not told anyone about the dreams. Even before I disappeared from the world — when the dreams had first begun — I'd told no one.

Stupidly — or rather, arrogantly — I thought I would be fine, that I didn't need to talk about anything. I thought that the dreams would end, that they would simply fade away, and I would just move on and forget any of it ever happened.

Of course, my arrogance and my ability to hide any and all emotions were useless when it came to my subconscious. I had no control once sleep took me, and the dreams grew steadily worse as the years passed.

And now, after keeping everything inside, after keeping myself hidden, after not wanting to admit any weaknesses, I simply blurted it out.

It had been ridiculous to admit it. I should have just switched off my mind, should have just listened to her ramblings, should have ignored every instinct inside me that said _tell her._ It was bad enough that I looked like I did — a homeless vagrant would be a kind term — but to admit that she haunted my dreams?

I really was pathetic.

I forced myself not to look at her, fearful of what her reaction would be. But her reaction caught me off guard once more.

"We should talk about this somewhere else."

She slid off her seat and I watched, dumbstruck, as she shrugged on her coat, buttoning it, and then smiling at me. "When was the last time you had a decent meal?"

"I eat," I muttered.

Touching my arm, her smile was still bright. "I'm sure you do. But I won't talk about this with you in a pub. Now, come. Let me get you dinner."

* * *

I had expected her to simply walk the few doors down to the small café that I passed every night on my way to the pub. I had expected to sit in the dimly lit space and have the other diners stare in disgust at the fact that she had brought me inside.

I had expected a barrage of questions regarding my dreams.

What I hadn't expected was to be seated at the counter in her very own kitchen while she cooked for me.

I'd followed her out of the pub, my words still sounding like a drum inside my head;_ I dream about you._ _I dream about you_. I barely registered where we were walking and it wasn't until she stopped and took my hand, I realised that we had headed away from the street the pub was on.

"Will you allow me to Apparate us?"

I nodded dumbly, not thinking of where she was taking us, only that my hand was in hers, anchoring me to her, and allowing me to know that my dreams were not real.

She was.

She was smiles and laughter, she was warmth and comfort. She was the voice that told me that hope was not lost.

"Ready?"

I swallowed, and nodded; it had been too long, and the stomach-emptying pull of Apparition jerked me back into reality.

I stumbled forward when we re-appeared, almost falling to my knees, stopped only by her steadying arms around me. I pressed my fist to my mouth, swallowing hard — as kind as she was being, vomiting all over her would be sure to change that.

"You okay?" She asked, and I could hear the amusement in her voice.

"Yeah," I muttered, gulping in large gasps of air. "I've been doing that my entire life, I should be used to it."

Granger laughed. "Yes, but I'm assuming it's been a while?"

"Four years."

"You've not Apparated in four years?" She led me towards the stoop, opening the door, and leading us both inside.

I shook my head. "I've not used_ any_ magic in four years."

She stopped dead, her expressive eyes wide in surprise. "What?"

I shrugged. "With the exception of Gringotts, I've had no contact with this world."

She was speechless. And that allowed me to look about, suddenly realising where we were.

"Is this your house?"

She shook herself out of her stupor, and followed my gaze as I looked around. "It's not much. Two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, living room and kitchen down here."

"I think it's perfect."

She blushed, dropping her head to look at her feet. When she looked back up, her seemingly constant smile had returned.

"I thought you might be more comfortable talking here."

I nodded, and resumed numbly following her down the hallway.

_I think it's perfect_. What the fuck was that? I'd not seen anything apart from her hallway and I was telling her it was perfect. I was more pathetic than I thought.

"Grab a seat." She nodded towards the high stools lined up along the counter as we entered what was a sizeable living and kitchen area.

The room was neat and tidy, except for her books. They were everywhere. The small end-table beside the couch looked close to collapsing under the sheer weight of the mountains piled upon it. The bookshelves were overflowing, the shelves bending under the strain, and a number of free-standing stacks leaned against the walls.

Family pictures covered the walls — unmoving Muggle pictures, which I assumed were her parents. Smiling, laughing, happiness that I had rarely experienced in my childhood. The pictures that had adorned the walls of the Manor were stark in contrast. Formal, posed, unsmiling. The epitome of a pure-blood family.

Everything in her house, however, was light; there was space, it was warm. No dark corners, or dripping taps, or creaking floorboards. Just an overwhelming sense of home, of being welcomed in a place where I felt I didn't belong.

And now, I was sitting at her kitchen counter, watching as she rummaged through cupboards, placing all manner of foodstuffs on the counter, and chatting a mile a minute as she did so. She'd returned to the conversation where she left off in the pub without hesitation.

It was a dizzying experience.

"... Harry and Pansy were the biggest surprise. I mean, would you have guessed that?" She laughed and then continued without waiting for my response. "Ginny and Blaise were bound to end up together, she has been crushing on him since before her… _fling_ with Harry. Because that's all it ever was. A fling. Poor Blaise, didn't know what hit him. And Ron?" She actually stopped moving and looked at me, shrugging, "We were never meant to be. And he's so happy with Daph, and the baby. He gets all gooey eyed. It's just adorable."

An odd smile crossed her face, making me wonder if she was truly happy for Weasley. If whatever happened between them hadn't been as amicable as she made out.

"It's good they're all happy," I said, unsure of exactly what I thought. It was all such a contrast to what I had known.

With the exception of Daphne — the Greengrass' had never been purists — we had all been fierce rivals. I was certain, at one time, none of us would have ever imagined the scenario Granger was now explaining.

"They are all disgustingly happy." She held up a bottle of Jameson. "Dinner will be a while, drink?"

I couldn't help but laugh. This was bordering on insanity. I was sitting in Granger's kitchen watching as she cooked for me, all the while chatting about friends who should not be friends, as we casually drank whiskey.

"Sure," I said with a shake of my head.

She sat beside me and lifted her glass. "To forgetting the past and starting anew."

I stared at her, knowing how impolite I was being by ignoring her toast, but her simple words brought me crashing back down. The lightheartedness vanished and her tortured face was instantly back in my mind.

"Draco?"

I shook my head and exhaled shakily. "Sorry. This is all a bit too much."

I moved to stand, but she stopped me. I could feel tears stinging my eyes and that was the last thing I needed; Granger seeing me cry.

"Draco. Don't leave. You don't have to talk to me if it makes you uncomfortable. We can just have dinner together. Two old friends. That's all."

Friends. Like it was easy for her. Just being near her was tearing me in two.

And in a gesture so unexpected it made my tears spill over, she curled my hand into both of hers, lifted it to her mouth, and kissed my fingers.

Like her scarf, her hands were comfort, warmth. It wasn't pity or condescension, just a simple gesture of care.

I pressed my free hand to my face, trying to calm myself, and not wanting her to see me any worse than she already did. I had been taught —_ brainwashed_ — to not let anyone see the truth. I had been taught that emotions made you weak. And weakness allowed your enemies to hold power over you.

Granger wasn't my enemy — not any more, not that she ever truly was — but a lifetime of being told otherwise was difficult to overcome.

"What did they do to you?"

Her voice was hardly a whisper, and the pain I heard in it was excruciating. She was heartbroken for me and I couldn't understand why.

"No more than…" My voice wavered, cracked, and I could barely get the words out, "than... what they did to you."

"Is that what you dream about? What happened to me?"

I nodded, still unable to look up at her.

"Draco, please tell me." Her hands tightened on mine. "You can't keep torturing yourself like this."

"Granger, I can't tell you… I don't…"

I wanted to tear my hand from hers and leave, to get as far from her as possible, to remain hidden once more. But I also couldn't bear to lose the feel of her.

"Just say anything, Draco. Whatever you want to tell me, just say it."

I squeezed her hands and finally looked up at her. It was the same face she seemed to wear whenever she was near me — smiling, yet concerned.

"That night… in the Manor… when Bella—" I stopped abruptly, my gaze dropped to her arm. Her sleeve was pulled down but I knew it was there. The word my aunt burned into Granger's skin. That word. The derogatory insult that she would have looked at every day since.

"You dream about that night?"

She held my hand tighter when I nodded. "I should have stopped her."

"Draco. No. How could you have stopped her? You would have been killed."

"Maybe." I pulled my hand from hers, her comfort was too much, and I didn't deserve it. "But it would have stopped her from… doing what she did."

"What she did wasn't your fault. And you dying wouldn't have stopped her. She still would have tortured me, and you would have been dead. And that would have been worse."

I shrugged. "Would it have been?"

She scowled. "Of course it would have. Don't ever think that. The world is better off because she is dead. Not you."

Granger stood and rounded the counter, lifting the lid from the pot on the range, and stirring the contents. I'd angered her. The prospect of my death had angered her. Not the name calling, the appalling way I had treated her, or my bigoted upbringing, but my death. It made no sense.

She turned back to face me. I expected her face to be angry, but her smile had returned.

"I'm perfectly fine, Draco. 'Tis but a scratch', as they say. And you're in this world because you're important. You might not think that, but you are."

I shrugged again. "The last four years say otherwise."

Her smile faltered. "Meaning?"

"Whether people hate me or feel sorry for me, or even are indifferent to everything that occurred before and after the war, the last four years have proven that Draco Malfoy is irrelevant and has not been missed."

Hermione stared at me for the longest time, not saying anything, just staring and making me squirm.

"You really don't know, do you?" She finally asked in a quiet voice.

"Know what?"

"Know how worried we've all been." She held her hand up when I began to protest. "Blaise and Pansy have been searching for you since you disappeared. They both knew you would hide yourself so completely that they'd never find you, but they've not stopped looking."

I wasn't sure I believed her, but a small pang of guilt tugged at my insides. I hadn't meant to hurt my friends; it was just one more thing I could tear myself up over. My selfishness, it seemed, knew no bounds.

She leaned across the counter and covered my hand with hers. "I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad, Draco. I just wanted you to know you have been missed."

I nodded, still dubious. "Thanks."

"You don't have to believe me, Draco." She moved back to the range, stirring the pot again. "But it is true. And when — _if_ — you want to see them again, they'll tell you the same thing."

"Maybe," I said with another shrug.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Draco. So much has changed. I mean, our friends are just a small example of how different everything is." She winced slightly. "Well, everything is mostly different. There are a few purists still out there — I'm sure there always will be — but they don't make quite as much noise as they once did."

I shook my head. After everything that had happened, all the deaths, the destruction, the defeat of the Dark Lord, they were still out there.

And a great part of his defeat was owing to the woman standing in front of me. The Muggle-born witch who was as brilliant — if not more so — than any pure-blood witch or wizard I'd ever known.

"You might be surprised, Draco, at how easily people offer forgiveness when you ask for it."

"I don't imagine forgiveness for murder is as easy as that."

She frowned at my words, but didn't acknowledge what I'd said.

"Pansy apologised to us, asked for our forgiveness, and we gave it to her. As did Blaise. It was easy to do. There was no point in holding onto pointless anger or old grudges. And it's turned out perfectly for them all."

It was my turn to frown. The odd smile that had flashed across her face when she mentioned Weasley earlier returned, and I wondered again at just what had actually happened between them.

"What about you?" I looked around her living room in an attempt to make my question seem more like a general interest rather than a pointed enquiry. "You tell me that they've all found perfection in each other. Well, have you found your perfection?"

She laughed. "Are you asking if I have a boyfriend?"

I couldn't help but grin; she was still too shrewd to miss my true enquiry.

"No," she said, "I don't have a boyfriend or fiancé or husband. I live here alone."

"Why?" The world was out before I could stop myself.

"Why do I live here alone?" She smirked. "Or why don't I have a boyfriend?"

"Ah, well…" I felt my face heat up.

"I've not found the right person yet, that's all," she admitted.

I simply nodded and picked up my glass, drinking the remaining contents and ignoring her smirk.

* * *

"Thank you, but I don't want you to help," Granger said, pulling the plate from my hand and pointing at the couch. "You're my guest. Go and sit down, have another drink."

"I think it's the least I can do," I protested. I'd been raised with manners; some things had changed, but my ingrained sense of propriety had not.

"And I appreciate the thought, but no." She all but shoved me from her kitchen, "Go. Sit. Drink. You can watch me from the couch, I'll just be a few minutes."

I gave her one last glare, which just made her laugh, picked up the bottle of Jameson and both our glasses, and headed for the couch.

I half filled both glasses and sat down as requested, taking the chance to just watch her. Aside from what I saw when Weasley was mentioned, she appeared happy. No lingering effects from the war, or from her torture at my aunt's hand. She seemed settled, her life easy and without conflict. And I envied her once more.

How she — or any of them — could so easily forgive Pansy and Blaise boggled my mind. How she could forgive me, could even have me in her home, was unexplainable.

Leaning my head back on the couch, I closed my eyes. All of it — their new lives, their ability to move on, to fall in love with those who had once been considered the enemy — was almost too much to take in.

They all seemed happy, content living the lives they hadn't foreseen. Their lives had taken different paths,_ very_ different, and I found myself oddly jealous of the fact that they had all been able to just move on and appear to forget what had happened.

A sudden weariness descended over me and I felt myself drifting. I tried to force my eyes open, but the task seemed impossible. I couldn't fall asleep here. Not in Granger's living room, not on her couch.

But the warmth of the room, the feeling of her home being safe, of her being close, was all too much to fight. Besides, I was certain that she would wake me after a time and send me on my way.

I breathed a heavy sigh, sinking deeper into the soft cushions and, unable to stop it, I let sleep take me.

* * *

**A/N:**

**My apologies for the delay, real life has been causing me havoc. I cant promise a schedule for this, but I can promise that it's still being written.**

**Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting xx**


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